


Repose

by ospreyx



Series: rest and recuperation [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Character Study, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Qrowtober2020, vague references to ch 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 12,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: For a long while, there is quietude, but not peace. There is a lull, a respite, a tranquility like that of the silence that follows a storm, but it is not peace. There is no peace until there is healing, and there is no real first step to healing.But Clover can let himself believe that something like peace can be reached when Qrow turns to him and, for the first time since returning from Atlas, wears a smile that does not look perilously close to shattering.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: rest and recuperation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998874
Comments: 317
Kudos: 83





	1. profession

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a series of related drabbles for all 31 days of qrowtober. this takes place after armageddon, in which clover returns with qrow to patch. there will be warnings for the vague ch12 mentions added in the author's notes of relevant chapters. prompts will be in the chapter titles.
> 
> ♡ 31 days of qrow healing & moving on, in stark contrast to the 31 days of hell i put him & his kids through in my [whumptober drabblefic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747383/chapters/65253022) ♡

For a long while, there is quietude, but not peace. There is a lull, a respite, a tranquility like that of the silence that follows a storm, but it is not peace. There is no peace until there is healing, and there is no real first step to healing.

Clover can pinpoint where it begins for Qrow, though. 

It starts when Signal does.

If there is one thing that comes naturally to Qrow, one thing beyond coping and fighting and _surviving_ , it is teaching. He is patient in a way that Clover has not seen beyond battle. He is dedicated to his profession in a way Clover has not seen outside of a near-impossible war.

He is different when there is no looming threat, no battle to be fought, no people to drag out of hell.

But it is that difference that Clover recognizes as the beginnings of healing. It is the vulnerability that shows itself, long into the night as Qrow writes in ink with nothing but encouragement, early into the morning when Qrow pours himself a cup of coffee and goes over lesson plans. It is the serenity that settles after the tension has finally snapped, leaving nothing but a long lost love to be rediscovered in its wake.

Qrow has not healed yet, that much is obvious. He has not made it out of the storm when there are still long days and even longer nights and eternities spent regretting and mourning. But as Clover steps into a classroom late one evening and listens to Qrow speak with nothing but patience and adoration, he can let himself believe that healing is a very real possibility. 

He can let himself believe that something like peace can be reached when Qrow turns to him and, for the first time since returning from Atlas, wears a smile that does not look perilously close to shattering.


	2. feathers

Clover starts to keep the feathers Qrow leaves behind.

He cannot help it. It is not often that Qrow shifts into something fragile and hollow, not when there are no obligations to use as an excuse. But occasionally, he does, late into the night when the room is too small and the blanket is too scratchy and the atmosphere is too heavy for him to breathe through.

He needs security that Clover cannot provide, comfort that he cannot be granted, familiarity that he only knows one way to achieve. Perhaps one day, far into a future that only grows in clarity, this will be the new familiarity in Qrow’s life - the security of permanence that he has always deserved but never received.

He leaves, and Clover wakes, and every time, there are feathers left behind. 

It must be deliberate, Clover thinks, all these sleek black feathers scattered like promises across the bed sheets and the windowsill. They are soft, strong, beautiful; they are everything that Qrow is, compressed into a single token of himself that he never forgets to leave behind. 

One thing that will never change about Qrow is that he is never one to stray very far from home for too long. He is never one to run away. He is one to make promises and keep them.

So every time Qrow leaves to spend time in a form that is inherently simpler and calmer and holds more familiarity than a permanent home and a warm embrace, Clover does not complain. He only collects the feathers and eventually slips them into a small jar on their nightstand. He rattles them sometimes, a gentle whisper in the night, soft echoes of every reminder that Qrow never fails to leave him. 

If there is one thing that Qrow is, one trait that will never leave him regardless of the hardships thrown his way, it is that he is considerate.

Once before bed, shrouded in the ethereal kiss of the shattered moon, Qrow asks him, “Why do you keep them?”

There is no judgement on his face, no contempt, no wound far past the point of healing cleanly. There is only mild intrigue, as if this is not a quirk specific to him, as if he does not realize that every feather is a part of himself.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Clover asks in turn, setting the jar back down.

Qrow huffs, but he does not complain. It is acceptance rather than defeat, that much Clover knows; there is no defeat for someone far past the finish line. Qrow turns, and the reflected starlight moves with him, sparking in his irises, tinting them the loveliest shade of pink Clover has seen yet.

“Well, hurry up, then,” Qrow yawns. “I’m cold.”

Clover does not argue.


	3. rings

Sometimes, Qrow’s students ask him about his rings.

They are observant, and that is good. They are observant, just as all Huntsmen and Huntresses should be, but they are also so _nosy_.

But he does not mind. There is a different kind of satisfaction that comes with his students’ antics. There is a different kind of a calm, a different kind of peace that settles every time he enters his classroom, regardless of their boundless energy. Even when they ask him, time and time again before they are dismissed, for a story to tell.

Each ring has their own story, and sometimes, he tells them. Sometimes, he does not. There are many stories to tell on each finger. There are several about his misadventures, a few about the small handful of friends and family he still has, the one about Summer and her post-graduation sentimentality. 

Though the only finger that has yet to have a story attached to it is his ring finger.

It is mostly because of Summer, desolate from the promise he made all those years ago when she told him never to wear one there unless he meant it. And if there is one thing he is good at, it is keeping his promises. Not that it was difficult - throughout the years, not once has he considered having a ring there. It has always been unappealing, distracting, _daunting._

But when he looks to Clover some evenings in between grading papers, he considers that perhaps one day, there might be one there. And for the first time in his life, he does not pale at the thought.

Qrow does not know exactly when he warmed up to the idea of settling down, but he does know that this is home. _This_ \- his classroom, his students, their unending potential and their wild curiosity when Clover walks in a bit too early one time. Qrow still rolls his eyes fondly at the memory; they did not even _try_ to be subtle with their explosion of questions when Clover sheepishly apologized and walked back out.

This is home, and for the first time since he entered Beacon, there is no reason for him to leave. This must be what Summer always talked about, Qrow sometimes thinks, this must be the beginnings of the peace she kept insisting he would one day reach.


	4. patterns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: the mildest ch12 reference

Qrow does not know what to do with his hands.

Rarely, he reaches. Rarely, very rarely, he reaches for his breast pocket, and for the briefest moment, he wants.

It is as tumultuous as a thunderclap, shattering right through whatever semblance of balance he thought he had. He halts over a pocket that is empty, thinks fleetingly about a flask he has long since gotten rid of, and aches in a way he has not in a long time.

He still wants, sometimes. He does not want as strongly as he once did, does not quake and breathe and want badly enough to hurt, but he still does want from time to time. It is something that lingers, not as persistent or looming as a silhouette, but as a shadow that grows in a far-off corner that waits for twilight to stretch it further.

So when he reaches again, when he thinks for the faintest moment of returning to that long-lost road, he occupies his hands.

He starts by touching, then progresses to tapping. Mindless patterns at first, until it falls into step with something innate, something ingrained in him, something too muddled in nebulous childhood memories for him to pinpoint. He taps patterns against Clover’s skin on those rare nights, pinky to index and then back again, slow and steady, over and over until Clover finally says something.

Qrow expects derision, but Clover only says, “You’ll have to tell me where that’s from, sometime.”

For a moment, he tries. He thinks, but it is not to the pattern, to the source of it; he only thinks of why he started it, of the echoes of wounds that have long since healed but still ache, and is reminded to keep going. So he does, a steady tap tap tap against a solid chest, mindful to avoid the stretch of metal that fills the gaping valley that was once his sternum.

“If I remember,” Qrow promises.


	5. poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: scars

There is only one scar that Qrow does not talk about.

Clover has made his own conclusions, long ago when the skin was still glossy and tinted purple around its puffy edges.

He traces the length of it early one morning while Qrow still pants, quakes, pulls himself together. He smooths his fingers out over the skin, forever scarred, forever tainted. There are multiple scars there, painting the picture that Qrow never needed to explain - circular indents for surgical tubes to pump him clean, drain him of the poison that tinted his veins purple, bring him back from the brink of death.

It must have been the only time he has ever been so weak. It must have been the closest he has been to that unbidden peace, if the instinctual flinch and the whited eyes all that time ago was anything to go by.

Qrow is strong, though. He is so, so strong, no longer wincing when it is touched, no longer paling when he glances at the stained skin in the mirror. He has not forgotten, but it does not haunt him, does not reverberate as strongly as it once did. He has grown, and he has only gotten stronger, and like every other time, he has faced the worst and _survived._

But if Qrow wasn't as strong as he was, if he wasn't so hellbent on surviving for his kids, if he wasn't -

Clover takes a slow, steadying breath. Pauses in his touches, trails back upwards, away from circular indents and marred skin and a stretch of scar tissue that does not seethe as brightly as it once did. He does not want to think about it. He refuses to think about it.

He only thinks about Qrow, who weaves their fingers together and murmurs, "I know."

It is a wonder how Qrow gives the comfort when he should be the one taking it. 

It has always been that way, though. With his team, his kids, his family. He has always done what he could to hold things together. But when he rests his hand above Clover's where it lingers along the length of the scar and presses down as if it will stop something from falling apart, it is proof enough that Qrow is no longer holding all things together like gravity between every celestial body.

It is also proof enough that Qrow has finally accepted the security, the comfort, the help.


	6. flow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: the vaguest & mildest spice you've ever seen

Qrow moves languorously now, the brush of his lips over Clover’s skin a heady whisper of a midsummer breeze across lukewarm water. He takes his time, savoring every second, every moment, every breath that bleeds out between them.

It is not patience that Qrow shows - rather, it is adoration, tending to every need as meticulously as anything else. There is care in his touches, his voice, his movements; there is trust in the way his eyes flutter shut, tilting his head back, moving against Clover like the flow of a gentle stream.

There is no longer tension there to keep him stiff, to keep him cautious. There is no threat that has him glancing periodically to his weapon, to the exits, to the nearest person he must protect at all costs. He is ready, though, because it is ingrained in him, a part of him, always ready to jump to action when he is needed. That part of him will never fade away, but that is not a bad thing.

That only means that these moments where he is languid and carefree are that much more vulnerable.

It means that he has placed something remarkably fragile in the palm of Clover’s hand and trusted that all will be well.

And it is water that flows both ways, a push and pull that neither of them break, a perfect balance that coaxes Qrow to let go. That is what he needs after so long, to let go and allow himself respite, and miraculously, it gets easier for him to do as time goes on. He simply closes his eyes and lets go, and Clover will always let him.

He will let Qrow take what he needs, give what he wants, and watch with reverence as Qrow basks in a serenity that he has never known until now.


	7. night

One thing Clover grows to love about Patch is the night sky. It is Qrow who first shows him after giving into his insistence for a camping trip. That night, Qrow is not giddy but not tranquil either, a sort of youthful pleasure on his face when they venture outside their tent at the right time.

Qrow has talked about it before, a sort of breathless wonder to him that Clover could only ever imagine the cause of. This is his home, the one place he always returns to, the one place he has grown to love because of his family. Patch is sublime in many ways, but what is truly captivating is the effort Qrow makes to show Clover every single beauty within it.

There are many things to discover in Patch, and after all these years, there is finally one person that Qrow wants to reveal them to.

This far away from any major cities, it is easy for the cosmos to reveal itself. It blankets Patch in a crystalline, almost glass-like beauty, filled with glimmering trinkets that bleed starlight into the night sky. It is both too serene and too divine to be real, but at the same time, it is also too bright and pulsing with too many shimmering wonders to be anything _but_ real.

“Oh,” Clover breathes.

Next to him, Qrow smiles. It is one of those smiles he reserves for his family. It is a smile he has slowly begun to use for Clover, as well. It is a vulnerable smile that says more than words ever can, because Qrow is rarely one for words, only touch, and acts, and gifts of wonder.

For once, there is irrevocable joy that shines in Qrow’s eyes, brighter than any celestial body the Brothers could have gifted them.


	8. photos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk where clover went

Qrow starts to take many photos.

There are wonderful things that have no photos to accompany them, immortalized only by memory, but he is only getting older, and the days are growing longer, and memory is not as reliable as it used to be. So instead, he takes photos.

Some things should never fade, even if they bring an ache, even if they are bittersweet. There are things that should be immortalized, he thinks as he frames them, hangs them, glances between each one sometimes when he is lonely.

There are many, now, all of the milestones that each of his surrogate children have reached. It is a selfish part of him that makes it bittersweet. It was harrowing, at first, knowing that his kids will no longer need him, knowing that he will have nothing left to do. There is no use for an asset that has lost its purpose. There is no use for _him_ , and there is nothing left but to be discarded. To be _forgotten._

But it does not feel that way when he looks upon the photos that decorate his wall. It never feels that way when his nieces and their friends still call and send their own photos during their adventures. They do not need him any longer, and they have gone their separate ways, but Qrow has grown to accept that. 

They are happy, and they do not force any smiles or fake any joy for the camera, and that is what matters to him.


	9. coffee

Despite his profession, Qrow is not a morning person.

It is Clover who wakes up first and prepares coffee for them both. It is the earthy smell of the brew that draws Qrow like a moth to the flame, bleary-eyed and yawning into the backs of his knuckles. Clover’s is lightly sweetened, and Qrow’s is the exact opposite, almost sickeningly so. 

It is a wonder why no one blames Qrow for Ruby's ungodly sugar preferences when she takes after him so heavily.

Clover has seen the similarities from the very start, can still see them on the occasional weekend visits. She always arrives unannounced, but Clover does not mind; he cannot mind when Qrow brightens every time, a relief to his smile as if he feared being forgotten, a joyful crinkle at the corners of his eyes that Clover has grown to adore.

Qrow takes the mug that is offered to him, but he does not pull away immediately. Although he is only half awake, he still lingers to show his gratitude. It is like that way for a lot of things, this immediate thanks, this exchange, because the fear of a lost tomorrow will forever be engraved into his being. But Clover does not mind that, either.

Qrow pulls him close, enough heat in the press of his body to Clover’s to rival that of Patch’s midsummer afternoon. He turns his head, tucks his nose just under Clover’s jaw, nuzzles in the way he only does when there is no caffeine on his tongue to revive him just yet. He presses his lips to Clover’s skin with a contented hum before he finally pulls away.

“Thanks, lucky charm,” Qrow needlessly says, always ready with the affirmation, the follow up, the words to accompany the gratitude of his touch.


	10. magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: ch 12 references & nightmares; tags updated

Some nights, Qrow is the one who wakes, trembling and glassy-eyed and gasping out for something he cannot name.

Other nights, it is Clover.

There is a different kind of understanding that comes with too-vivid dreams and wounds long since healed. Clover can see it the way Qrow settles with him on those nights and traces his fingertips down the length of his sternum. The touch is both calming and calamitous, both lighter than atmosphere and heavier than gravity, both electrifying and numbing where they press against frayed nerve endings.

But Clover needs the contradiction, the clarity of it, the tether back to Remnant on the nights when he remembers. 

Sometimes, he aches. Sometimes, he still feels the creak in his ribs, the shudder in his lung, the frantic pound of his heart hammering hard enough to rattle his bones. Sometimes, he quakes, and he breathes, and while he tries his hardest to remain silent, Qrow still knows when it happens.

Qrow is dreadfully observant. That is what is wrought from world-shattering secrets and decades spent skulking in the shadows. He is observant, and he understands, and on these nights, he does not breathe a word.

He never speaks, only touches. He touches until Clover lets out a shuddering breath, finally free, finally whole, finally there; he touches in a way no one else has touched, as if Clover is something to cherish, as if the metal that fills the void left behind is just another part of him; he touches until the memories start to fray and the ache begins to subside.

It is more soothing than narcotics, more healing than the dreamless sleep that they bring, more absolute than magic. But Clover wonders about that, wonders if it is magic that brings him back when there are no drugs to dull the pain and no heart rate monitor to remind him that he is still alive.

Qrow’s eyes are crimson in the low lighting, heavier than the blood in Clover’s veins, in his remaining lung, in the point where flesh and metal coalesce. He watches, and he touches, and somehow, he just _knows_. Knows when to stop, when to begin, where to massage, where to avoid. 

He knows as if it is innate. A lot of things are innate to him - fighting, teaching, surviving. They are natural like breathing, like living, but Clover wonders if this is not learned instead.

One thing that Clover notices from the very start is how Qrow watches. He always watches, observes and understands in a way that only decades of spywork could cultivate. He watches, and he learns, and he adapts no matter the cost. He does not talk about his tribe, but that skill alone says enough.

But Qrow is not spying or clawing to survive, not anymore - he is soothing, he is comforting, and he is watching because he cares. He watches, and he quickly learns what it means to bring peace. He learns where to caress, where to press, where to trace with his lips, and the relief is almost instantaneous.

It must be magic, Clover thinks as the ache quickly fades and breathing starts to come easy to him again, it must be magic that makes Qrow so good at this.


	11. warmth

Qrow is more susceptible to the cold than others, and he hates that he is.

It is never long after the chill of an early autumn sets in that he begins to shiver. It is never long after the sun sets that his teeth start to chatter and his hands tremble where they rub together. It has always been that way, ever since he and his twin were given wings and hollow bones.

But now, at the very least, he has someone to keep him warm.

The chill comes quickly, rolling over Patch like a snow-wrought mist above a rising tide, but he does not begin to quake. Instead, he turns over in too-thin sheets and nuzzles close into an embrace like that of tropical waters. It swathes him in a heat like that of gold, of sunlight, of blood-orange sunsets across languid waters; he breathes in sandalwood and linens, exhales slowly, melts into a heady warmth that he is endlessly enamored with.

One hand rests against Clover’s chest, right above his heart, some nights yearning desperately to hear the beat of it. Strong, healthy, _living_ \- some nights, he presses his lips to Clover’s throat, holds fast to his wrist, and wishes more than anything to feel the pulse.

Eventually, he starts to listen instead. He listens, both for himself and for Clover, a reassurance that they both need. Soon, he is lulled to sleep by the warmth and the idle touches and the steady beat of a heart that is strong and whole beneath his ear.


	12. beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: fleeting ch12 mention and post-surgery scars (or. metal ? post-surgery metal. yes.)

Qrow lays back against a towel stretched out across sand that burns with the kiss of the sun. There is naught but the whispers of the ocean, sighing out into thick summer air as it rocks and laps across the stretch of sand nearby. With it comes a blissful breeze, a salt-laden respite, a breath of fresh air amongst the heat of the late morning. 

The water melts further inwards like a shadow that moulds with another, building, expanding, breathing; briefly, Qrow wonders if he should move, but it is probably not necessary. He listens to the voices nearby, screeching, laughing, louder than the splash of water that follows. He does not open his eyes, does not need to see that Ruby has probably lost the game they play, as she usually does.

For once, he does not worry. He does not need to keep his kids in his line of sight, does not need to linger forevermore at their side to trust that they are okay. He merely stretches, turns onto his side, listens to Yang and Blake tease Weiss about something mundane before he finally opens his eyes.

His family is there, all of them together again after so long. The four of his girls, already in the water; Taiyang nearby, the sun on his skin, in his hair, igniting him a fierce gold; and Clover, out of the water and approaching Qrow with a smile.

Qrow notices how Clover tends to smile more often nowadays. It is always genuine, brighter than the sun, fiercer than the blood within his flesh, lovelier than the next breeze that laps over the bare stretch of his torso.

Lower, metal glints in the sunlight, a jagged-peaked edge that sits down the length of his sternum and just past his diaphragm. For once, it does not look like an omen, and Qrow does not flinch. For once, it looks crystalline, ethereal, moulding into skin, replacing bone and flesh, weaved so finely with wire and pseudo nerve endings that it might as well be any other bit of skin on his body.

Qrow has not blamed himself in a long while. He tries not to, even on those rare nights where he wakes with the slick feeling of blood on his skin and tear stains down his cheeks. He tries not to, not when Clover’s smile hitches higher, unabashed joy in him, a love to his every action that Qrow has never known elsewhere.

“You coming?” Clover calls to him.

Qrow blinks, swallows around the knot in his throat. Wonders where his heart went, where it might have run off to, if not the hollow beneath Clover’s chest, in the palm of Clover’s hand where he keeps all things safe. He rises, delves his hand into sand, feels the burn of the sun lap against the pulse that hammers at his thumb.

He joins his family in the water, and for once, he does not worry about what awaits them at the end of the day.


	13. touch/bite

Permanence is new to Qrow.

He has never been particularly possessive of anything. He has only ever had Harbinger with him, the only guarantee in his life other than his misfortune, while everything else has held on by the barest threads. He knows what it means to let go, to move onwards, to use what is given until he inevitably has to leave it behind.

So it is almost frightening when he wakes up every day to the same man by his side.

It is almost frightening at first, shifting in an embrace almost too tight to squeeze out of, breathing in a scent that reminds him of seafoam and springtime promises and a smile warmer than early morning sunlight. But like all things that are novel, it dulls with time. It does not lose its lustre, though - rather than growing used to it, he grows to accept it.

He grows to anticipate the touches, the quiet words, the gravelly murmur of something too incoherent before Clover drifts back to sleep.

He anticipates many things, and this is one of them; the permanence of Clover, of what they have, of what they are building. It is permanence, this thing that blooms, spreads its wings, flies higher than ever before.

And, although it is not  _ permanent, _ Qrow still finds pleasure in leaving marks behind.

They say what words do not. They convey what actions do not. They seethe bright against Clover’s skin, there for the cosmos to see; they are crescent-shaped, blossoming a purple-tinged red against impeccable skin, a declaration that is nothing short of _ mine. _

At first, Qrow is afraid of leaving marks behind when there are too many declarations to be hidden within them. He is not used to this. He does not know what permanence is, but he is a fast learner. He learns what it means to have a guaranteed tomorrow. He learns what it means to fall asleep without the fear of waking up alone. 

He also learns very quickly that Clover enjoys it, as well.

He does not imagine that there is very much permanence within pristine walls and marble tiles and a profession that calls for nothing but unconditional loyalty. He is not alone, not with this, and it is comforting, knowing that they are both learning, healing, growing. It is comforting, allowing himself to sink his teeth in and send blood rushing to the surface to tint the skin purple.

It is also exhilarating, the way Clover quakes and gasps and grows needier with every bite.

They are not permanent, not anything close, but it is the sentiment behind them that is permanent - it is the love, the dedication, the promise in every single galaxy breathed into existence.


	14. shiny things

For the most part, it is easy for Qrow to ignore the knee-jerk urge to reach for every trinket he finds.

It was harder back at Beacon when he was given silky feathers and hollow bones and a metaphorical jess that kept him tethered to duty. Taiyang _still_ teases him about the small hoard of stolen jewelry he kept in his nightstand, discovered only because Raven got spiteful enough about some mundane thing to air out his dirty laundry.

But sometimes, it is still difficult to ignore the urge.

It is not often, not when he has grown accustomed to the glint of silver and the whisper of gold and the ever-alluring call of titanium bands encrusted with gems. He has a veritable hoard of jewelry and trinkets, tucked in various parts of their shared living space, the clutter of it all an odd sort of comfort.

He does not like empty space. He does not like bare walls, desolate floors, bookshelves kept too pristine; he does not like the idea that the space he inhabits at the moment is just that - _for the moment_. A barren room means that it is temporary, and he does not want temporary.

He has only ever known temporary, but it is difficult to accept it once he has been shown permanence.

So there is clutter. And, on the late evenings where the dying sunlight filters in through the blinds, there are technicolor splots that dance across windchimes, trinkets, rubies and jades and amethysts tucked neatly into their respective spaces. They are captivating, each a crystalline wonder, honeyed reds and sunkissed greens, but they are not what captivate him.

What draws him close by the iron in his veins, the oxygen in his lungs, the fibres of each muscle threaded against bone, is the pin Clover used to wear.

It is a lure, a call, an inevitability; it is an absolute, the way he reaches for the pin, holds it up to the light, and delights in its lustre. No longer stained, no longer fastened to a pristine uniform, but there for Qrow to return to every night.

Sometimes, Clover catches him, but he does not say a word, because he is allowed feathers. He is allowed his own comfort, just as Qrow is allowed shiny things; he does not do much more than smile when Qrow sets the pin back down next to the jar of feathers on their nightstand.


	15. sweets

There were many blessings that ultimately led to Qrow refusing to rejoin his tribe.

At first, it was his teammates. The four of them weaved seamlessly together, both in battle and in their day-to-day lives, with something far deeper than duty tethering them all together. Afterwards, it was Ozpin, with his endless patience and an insistence to a cause that Qrow could not help but believe in.

Then, it was the sweets.

They are a luxury, Qrow thinks, or at least seem to be luxury when sugar in his tribe was a scarce thing. And Clover notices this. He notices many things, always observant, always learning, and it is not long after he discovers Qrow’s love for sweets that the newfound passion for baking begins.

The scent is what drags Qrow out of bed late that Sunday, as fleeting as a breeze that whispers a promise against his skin before it fades. Instead of coffee that morning, it is a muffin, left to cool away from the rest. Clover is there, dusted lightly in flour, in cinnamon, hints of honey left to stick on the underside of one forearm.

He is expectant, as always, and Qrow will always indulge him, if not for the delight on his face, then for the muffins themselves. The first bite is always the most divine, hints of honey feather-light amongst the cinnamon, so delightfully fluffy on his tongue that he cannot help but melt into it. 

Clover only watches, a hopelessly fond smile on his lips, no doubt content that the new recipe he found recently turned out to be a success. Then again, every bit of sugar is a success in Qrow’s book.

Qrow is still basking in the taste as he groans, “You’re too good at this.”

Clover laughs, velvety like honey, light like the cinnamon that dusts the face of the muffin. He reaches out to run the pad of his thumb along Qrow’s bottom lip, murmuring, “How else was I supposed to win you over?”

In the end, Qrow is the one who tugs him into a kiss. It is the ghost of a kiss, a whisper of a touch, a shared breath that lasts only a second. That is all Qrow needs, though; Clover insists he is not one for sweets, but the sugar on his lips always gives him away.


	16. charm

It is the simplest things that make Qrow shine the brightest.

That is one stark difference between them. Clover is used to the attention, the praise, the publicity, but Qrow is not. He is not one for grand gestures or symphonic poetry or a glittering spotlight; he has had a lifetime of remaining hidden, decades shrouded in the looming shadows of sworn silence and burgeoning secrets, and no amount of time will be enough to shatter that foundation.

But Clover is used to adapting, growing, learning. Qrow does, as well, unfurling like the petals of a flower that finally breathes into a late bloom. He learns, and he adapts, and soon, he starts to accept the small gestures that grace his mornings. No longer does he look as if he is on the verge of falling apart when he is shown kindness - no longer does he think himself undeserving of good things, and for that, Clover is grateful.

Because really, if there is anyone who deserves all the blessings in the world, it is Qrow. If there is anyone who deserves true respite, it is Qrow, who stresses endlessly once the exam season comes by. His students will do well, he frequently swears, they will do well because they kick ass, every single one of them, they’ll do wonderfully.

And every time, Clover smiles and believes him.

The morning before the exam, Clover stops Qrow at the door. He blinks, wavers, pausing in the middle of whatever stress-induced rambling he was going on about. He lets out a breathless laugh as Clover leans in with a pair of earrings that he forgot to put on before leaving. This close, Clover can see the early morning sunlight that dances in Qrow’s eyes, igniting them a heady crimson like that of the walls of his heart.

After putting them on, Clover pauses to flick at one earring, then says, “For good luck.” 

The tension does not snap, instead melting like the velvety convergence of twilight and dusk, no longer as blatant as it once was. Qrow’s fingers hook into Clover’s collar, tugging him close, a gesture that goads Clover’s hands into settling upon his hips.

Qrow kisses him once. It is a needy, hungry sort of kiss that leaves Clover wishing desperately for more, but he does not give chase when it is over. He remains where he is, disciplined, patient, and listens as Qrow teases, “I’ve already got a good luck charm.”

“What’s one more?”

Qrow softens at that, a warm smile tugging at his lips, the sight so vulnerable and so exquisitely lovely that it makes Clover’s heart hit the ground running.


	17. dance

Their home is thick with a heady warmth that bleeds in waves from the oven. Lamplight glistens off the surface of every trinket lined upon shelves and counters, and faintly, their reflection can be seen in the windows nearby. Curtains are pulled back, tied into place with worn burgundy ribbons, but neither of them can see out into the yard when the panes are nebulous from the heat within.

Clover is still streaked with flour, but that does not stop Qrow from pulling him close. There are smears of batter left to dry against his sleeves and powdered sugar dusted lightly on his skin, but that does not stop Qrow from tugging him along with a smile on his lips.

It is that smile that Clover has seen before, time and time again when it is just the two of them, but it is brighter now. Mirth sparks in his eyes, flitting alongside the glimmer of the lights within them, small pinpricks of white that dance within the pink.

Qrow is playful when he wants to be. He has not had a lifetime of careful military precision to leave him inscrutable, only decades of secrets and silence to keep him cautious. He is the one who starts the music, tugs Clover’s collar loose, and leads him into something that cannot quite be called a dance, but it is close.

There is something incredibly contagious in his smile, his movements, his _joy_. That is something that will always come from him, these moments where he allows himself to let go - moments where he is not plagued with aches long since healed, wounds long since bandaged, memories long since quieted. 

It is not retirement that teaches Clover what it means to be something beyond a soldier, a weapon, an asset. It is Qrow.

It is Qrow, who likes soft music in the background and the hints of vanilla beginning to permeate the air. It is Qrow who guides him, forever a teacher, forever a partner, forever patient and wondrous as he moves with Clover. He is luxurious, the sway of his body against Clover’s mesmerizing, the lips against Clover’s like something out of a dream.

That is what this is, Clover sometimes thinks, forever lost in a dream that he thought he had awoken from. It must be a dream, the music, the dancing, the press of lips to his skin; it must be nothing but a dream, this tattered soul left to fester finally smiling in front of him, the pile of shattered hopes and lake water apathy nowhere to be seen.

But it is never just a dream. Qrow is always there beside him, never once breaking his promise, never once running despite knowing nothing but how to run. He has changed, that much is obvious. He has changed, he has grown, he has _healed_ , and now, it is just them. 

Now, it is just them and the music, swaying languidly together as one song bleeds into the next.


	18. myths/legends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: vague ch 12 references

One of the first habits that Qrow breaks out of is the instinctual urge to reach for Harbinger.

It was once his only source of comfort beyond his flask, its hilt forever within arm’s reach, the gleam of the moonlight against its intricate surface a simultaneous comfort and omen. Now, it sits at one corner of their bedroom, not on display but not hidden either. It does not loom, does not lurk in the shadows like memories long since frayed, but instead serves as a reminder.

There was a time where Qrow could not glance at it. There was a nebulous period of time where he would rest his fingertips on its hilt, linger for far too long, and then let go with a nearly imperceptible tremor in his hands. There was once something that Clover recognized as guilt, as bright and seething in Qrow’s eyes as it was slick and smouldering on Harbinger.

Forgiveness did not come for a long while.

Eventually, there was forgiveness, but not healing. There were quiet words between the two, several nights as the first few tumultuous months went on; there was Harbinger wrapped within a blanket, shoved somewhere in the closet where neither of them could see, a secret that neither of them dared to breathe.

Now, there is nothing but a melancholic sort of nostalgia in Qrow when he removes Harbinger from its perch. He has changed in the same way the seasons change, the process natural and unhurried, blooming into something wholly different from what it once was. 

He does not wield it, does not bring it to its fullest extent, does not allow it to click and curve outwards into something lethal and beautiful. He does not do much more than hold it, fingertips fleeting and light upon its surface, tracing its intricacies and its ridges until he sets it down once more.

Faintly, Clover remembers the fluidity of the movements, the glint of a blade wreathed in ashes, the whisper of its arc through every approaching Grimm. It is surreal to think about it now, long into their retirement where there is no ache to tend to and no wounds to bandage. It is surreal when they have gone so long away from the battlefield, when there has been no reason to sleep with their weapons at hand.

It is even more surreal when Clover considers how Qrow was something of a legend once upon a time. He was a myth, almost, a Huntsman who was matched by none other than his own twin, a scythe-wielder rivaled only by yet another legend long since forgotten. And yet he is here, no longer in the battlefield, his hand no longer reaching for a flask or a weapon and instead settling against Clover’s thigh.

His fingertips are gentle, tracing patterns before they nudge him open, igniting the nerves beneath them as they dig into flesh. These were hands made to hunt, eyes made to spy, intuition wrought from loss and battle alike, but that is not what Clover sees.

He does not see the hollow outline of a legend, the whispered grandeur of a myth, the crude vessel of something long since forgotten; he only sees Qrow, trailing lower with a perilous grin, the smoulder of his eyes a feral thing that threatens to swallow him whole.


	19. plants/flowers

Every year on the same day, Qrow gets a bouquet of roses from Taiyang’s garden.

Clover does not need to ask to know what it means.

He has seen the photos that Qrow keeps on his Scroll, the photos that Taiyang keeps in an album, the lone photo that Ruby keeps in a locket. He has never had the pleasure of meeting Summer, but with how many stories Qrow has told him, he has a good idea of what she might have been like.

It is no secret that Qrow enjoys telling his stories, whether it be to the girls, to his students, or to Clover. Whether they be unprompted or requested, he has a story to tell, and Summer is almost always one of them. Even after all these years, he speaks about her with a smile on his face, but it is not joy that Clover sees.

It is love, he recognizes, an undying love for an old teammate and what would have been a lifelong friend. It is the same kind of love he has for Taiyang and for his kids, something deeper than his veins, than his heart, than the very oxygen he breathes; every part of him, whether it be jewelry or habit, stems back to the people he loves, and Clover can respect that.

There is nothing but respect every year when the time comes, Taiyang saying to him once, “Take care of him, yeah?”

If Taiyang hadn’t looked just about ready to shatter, Clover would have bristled.

Qrow has come a long way, his mistakes long since forgiven, the paths he used to tread long since forgotten. But it is not derision in Taiyang’s eyes, not judgement in his tone, nothing but a scar left bare to the world while the anniversary of her presumed death comes and goes.

But one year, instead of returning home with a heart made out of glass and silk-weaved skin on the verge of tearing apart, Qrow takes Clover with him.

Clover recognizes it as trust. There is nothing but trust as he approaches the gravestone by Qrow’s side, nothing left but trust in this fragile thing that Qrow has given him. There is something uniquely vulnerable revealed to him when Qrow places the bouquet down, holds his breath, and tells another story.

“These were her favorite,” Qrow needlessly states, a melancholic sort of nostalgia lilting his words. “She planted a few rose bushes right before Ruby was born.”

He no longer hurts as he once did. He does not cry and drink and pray to deities that are not there to listen to him. It is a wound long since healed, no longer aching as terribly as it once did, instead leaving something rough and gnarled in its wake. But if there is one thing Qrow is good at, it is telling stories, and he has always had a way of bringing his stories to life.

So in a way, Summer is not gone, not as he smiles a little brighter and says, “You should’ve seen the look on Tai’s face when she did. He probably would’ve proposed right then and there if he had a ring.”

Clover settles by Qrow’s side and glances down to the bouquet of roses. Their petals smoulder a deep velvet in the afternoon sunlight, as strong as Qrow is as he delves into another story that Clover gladly listens to.


	20. food

It is not often that Qrow cooks, but when he does, it is  _ sublime. _

He only mentioned where he got his cooking skills once to Clover, long ago when they were stuck within pristine walls that were far too impeccable to be called home. It was a necessity as much as it was a luxury; it was something learned quickly and efficiently, just as everything else was, a skill picked up to survive and then refined for the girls he helped raise.

Qrow does not particularly enjoy cooking, but he does not mind it, either. What he seems to enjoy is the reaction to it. Clover does not judge him, though. He can understand the flood of validation, the spark of joy that accompanies the sight of Qrow unabashedly melting into the sweets he bakes. At least he does not have to fake gratification - he has never been a good liar, especially not to Qrow.

But at this point, there are no lies, nothing that festers like poison or withers like fabric left stained for too long. There are no secrets, no missions kept under wraps, no duties that the both of them are forevermore tethered to.

There is only the delightful burst on Clover’s tongue on the first spoonful, a coalescence of meticulously picked spices and a thick, heady broth that leaves him basking in the flavor. Qrow is often the one to gesture him over with a spoon or forkful ready of whatever he cooks, always considerate of what Clover prefers, of what he does right and what he does wrong.

Qrow does not cook for himself, that much Clover can guess; it is one of many things that he learned mostly for others. Clover wonders if there is a single thing that Qrow learned in his life that was not meant purely for survival or for the people he was tasked to protect. 

So Clover makes a show of contemplating the flavor, even as Qrow grins and rolls his eyes. He leans into the soft touch of Qrow’s thumb against his bottom lip, running slowly back and forth, luring him ever closer. Faintly, he answers, “I think it’s perfect.”

Qrow lets out a contented hum.


	21. family

If there is one reason why Qrow loves Patch, it is because of his family.

It is because of the girls’ boundless energy, bleeding a separate kind of warmth into their home that Qrow still struggles to keep up with. It is because of Taiyang, who bounces right back in the banter, his smile brighter than the sun that pours out over the horizon and filters gently through the blinds. 

It is because of Clover, who laughs alongside them, who melds seamlessly in with his family as if he was the missing piece to a jigsaw long since forgotten.

When they first returned to Patch, Qrow did not expect Clover and Taiyang to get along so well. Now, they speak as if they are old friends, a push and pull between them like that of the sunrise and the sunset. There is a coalescence there, that much Qrow recognizes, both from an old life and a new one; there is a serenity that follows, a reassurance that comes with an old time friend approving so greatly of a more recent love in his life.

Over the years, he learns what family truly means. He learns the value of a family of his own choosing, a family tethered by bonds thicker than blood ever will be. Here, he is not deemed an omen, a curse, a blight; he is not regarded as a harbinger, a bad luck charm, an embodiment of everything gone wrong.

Here, there is only the five of them, a family all tethered by a bond that is uniquely their own. There is only a tranquility like that of the sunrise after a storm, a hazel-lit ribbon that gradually pierces the veil, a calm to the haze of sunlight that washes over them in its wake. There has been hardship that cannot be erased, years of wounds that never healed cleanly, but they are long past that, now.

Now, there is nothing left but peace, both for himself and for his family.


	22. birds

Gradually, Qrow stops needing to leave reminders behind in the dead of night. He allows himself to be vulnerable, no longer tainted with that knee-jerk reaction to hide amidst the fear, the stress, the memories. Instead of leaving, he begins to arrive during the evenings in the form of hollow bones and sleek black feathers.

The first time it happened, the window was closed, and Clover was jerked out of focus by a loud thump and an indignant squawk. He now knows to leave it open whenever he lounges on a recliner and reads whichever book Oobleck recommended to him that week.

The curtains shift with the breeze that wafts through every so often, its kiss on Clover’s skin a breath of fresh air amidst the late evening heat. The quietude is accompanied with the faint whispers of the surrounding trees, leaves of pulsing velvet and rich gold coming loose with each breeze that passes. Amidst the thrum of skittering leaves and swaying branches, Clover recognizes the telltale flutter of wings that approach quickly.

He looks up from his book just as a crow lands on the windowsill. Its eyes are bright, crimson, but the gleam of them is not uncanny. Clover recognizes it as mirth, as mischief, almost brighter than the trinket it holds in its beak.

“Where’d you get that from?”

The crow tilts its little head. It trills softly, something that might be a laugh were it tall and lithe and whole.

“Thought so,” Clover murmurs with mock reproach, but he cannot hide the smile that spreads on his face as the crow hops down from the windowsill and into his lap.

Clover waits for it to settle with its new shiny thing stifled under its feathers before he returns to reading. He can overlook the mild thievery for the opportunity to run his fingers along the length of smooth, black feathers. There are still several kept safe in a couple of jars now, but it is different when they are still attached to Qrow.

Everything is different now, Clover sometimes realizes, but that is not a bad thing. There is nothing inherently bad to the fragile things that he holds in his hands - a promise in one, given to him long ago, no longer on the verge of shattering; something hollow in the other, trilling quietly to itself as it nuzzles against him.


	23. transformation

Qrow cleans up well. That is not new, but Clover has forgotten after so long without a gala to attend or an undercover mission to execute.

It is far into the school year when there are parent-teacher conferences to be had, and although Qrow grumbles endlessly about it, he does make an effort. A lot of things go that way when it comes to his profession - the half-hearted complaining matched with a smile, the fond lilt of his voice when he talks about his students’ antics.

Clover wonders what takes him so long that evening, but he gets his answer with a sound like breaking glass.

Qrow emerges from their bedroom, and something dips, shifts, slides right out of place alongside the tilt of Remnant on its axis. The atmosphere is too heavy too suddenly, simmering like blood, both thick and heady where it rushes beneath Clover's skin; something sparks like static, two opposites meant to attract, the arc of something dangerously alluring in the air.

Qrow stands at his fullest, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the smooth cut of his vest fitting snugly around his lithe form. He is different, somehow, different beyond the slicked hair and aftershave and a vest to match his eyes. It is something that was always there, polished now and held up to the light, the glimmer of it blinding, the transformation lethal enough to leave Clover helpless against the whiplash. 

The corners of Qrow’s eyes crinkle, and the resulting smirk he wears bleeds with enough promise to bring the world outside their window crashing to a halt. Clover would breathe if he could remember how, would speak if his heart wasn’t hammering in his throat, would look away if it wasn’t Qrow’s smouldering gaze that drew him back. 

Like this - with warm lamplight igniting his irises to a wicked crimson and clean-cut outfit worn like a dagger - Qrow looks like a warning, a threat, a gunshot left ringing to signal the start of a hunt.

He looks perilous; he looks _ divine. _

This is something that should come with a warning label, Clover weakly thinks, pouring whatever oxygen was left in his blood out into the tremulous sigh he makes. 


	24. trust

Trust is a fragile thing that Qrow has long since learned to keep well out of anyone else’s grasp.

That is what is wrought from a lifetime of secrets that fester like poison. That is what is left after his track record, his list of casualties, his trail of inconveniences and misfortunes that he leaves behind. But while it is fragile like a stilted breath, a hushed whisper, a silence that is a heartbeat away from shattering, it is not an impassive thing.

It grows on its own accord. It blooms with the inevitability of the seasons, changing, warping, quickly becoming something that Qrow cannot control any longer. But for the first time in decades, he does not curse himself for learning how to trust again.

It is trust that he recognizes in every glance he sends Clover’s way. It is strong, yet tentative; deliberate, yet delicate; it is something that fills his veins, burns in his chest, thrums like the simmer of water or the roar of fire without an end in sight.

For once, he can see a future for himself, and it is frightening.

That much he tells Taiyang. He says it early one morning in a hushed voice, an anxious stillness, a glass-like silence that he scarcely dares to breathe against. He says it as he runs the pad of his thumb along the back of his ring finger, certain of the promise he will make but uncertain of the path it will take him on. 

With many things, he learns that he can trust his friends and his family.

But with this, there is no one besides Taiyang that he can trust to be honest.

So Qrow does not know what to think when Taiyang does not respond right away. He does not know what it is that he sees in Taiyang’s expression as he confesses. He does not know what it means when Taiyang looks over to Clover, who is too busy entertaining the girls to notice, and watches for some time.

Then, he looks back to Qrow and smiles. That alone is enough to bring the world skittering back to life, the cosmos whirling past, the blood in Qrow’s veins rushing like never before.

“Qrow Ebi-Branwen, huh?” Taiyang hums slowly, experimentally. His smile brightens like the emergence of dawn after a long and arduous night. “I think you’re onto something.”

Qrow lets out a breathless laugh, inexplicably light and airy now that the weight of ugly uncertainty has been lifted from his shoulders.


	25. music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mildest hint of spice you've ever seen

There is a unique kind of peace that comes with late evening drives around the mountainside.

Music plays quietly over the thrum of the engine. It is bright, lively, some foreign love song that Clover only half-listens to. He is more focused on the bleeding sunset, the echoes of another day spent languidly together, the promise of another tomorrow whispered in shades of gold and velvet.

If there is any music that plays, it is Qrow who picks the songs. There is a lot to be said in one’s music taste, Taiyang once said to him, though he is not entirely sure if that means very much when Qrow’s playlist is almost exclusively built from the songs his kids have shown him. It swings wildly from one genre to the next, a vast range of quiet strumming to passionate words to a bass that pulses like a heartbeat. 

Qrow never does seem to mind the inconsistency. He allows his kids free range of his playlist, and he listens regardless. He has long since adapted to their spontaneity. Though sometimes, when he allows the music to shuffle through and flits idly between photo albums, Clover wonders if he misses it.

This close to twilight, the sun is gentle and warm, no longer thick and seething on Clover’s skin. There is a chill that follows the dying sunlight, but he does not feel compelled to turn the heater on, not when Qrow’s lips press against his jaw. Qrow melts against him, the heat of him against Clover’s side spreading like that of a silhouette across the ground; it is languid, _natural,_ his body long since used to Qrow’s touch, and yet sparks still skitter up his spine at the hint of teeth against his skin.

If Qrow wants to be a brat, then so can he. There are many things that Qrow is - undoubtedly patient, impeccably calm, but not with this. Not when they are so far away from home. Not when he reaches idly to turn the music up higher. 

Clover sets one hand against Qrow’s knee. Trails higher, higher, squeezes, falls still. It is a warning, a challenge, a promise for later. He only smiles at the shaky breath against the crook of his neck.


	26. colors

One thing that Clover grows to love more than the night sky is a late summer sunset across Patch.

That is another thing Qrow showed him when they first arrived, always ready with the secret to reveal, always eager to give Clover another wonder in the palm of his hand. Now, it has become something of a tradition, the two of them lounging outside every evening before summer gives way to autumn. Clover finds that Qrow is especially keen on basking in the dying rays of sunlight, both in his human and corvid form. 

There is a different kind of serenity to a sunset, Clover sometimes thinks, like curtains that draw to a close, lights that start to dim until they spur back to life for the tomorrow guaranteed to come. It changes just as the seasons do, smooth and unhurried, one day shifting lazily into the next, but that is not what is so captivating.

It is the colors that burst forth from the convergence between day and night that have him rooted to the spot. It loses its novelty after a while, but the beauty never fades; it is the vibrance that ensnares him, the blossom of the emerging cosmos that Qrow promised would be the loveliest sight he’s ever seen.

The sunset pours over the horizon, bleeding a rose-tinted gold in waves, obstructed only by the oakwood trees that line their property. Soon, twilight moulds with the hazel-lit edges of the sunset, a coalescence of blues and reds that create a velvety lavender across the sky. It is then that Clover glances over to Qrow, because it is this lighting, this delicate pulse of warmth and color that brings out Qrow’s eyes the most.

His irises are not red but not pink either, some gentle sway between the two, a glass-like delicacy to the joyful gleam in them before they flutter shut. Qrow stretches with a blissful sigh and then settles, no doubt disinterested in the sight but endlessly entranced by its warmth. 

In a way, he is desensitized to it, but he knows that a proper sunset in Atlas is rare; he knows what wonder Clover was missing, and without a second thought, he did what he could to provide it at the first opportunity. He has always been that way - ready with the wonder to show, the gift to bring, the acts of service to both prove himself worthy and prove others wrong. 

Except now there is no worth to gain, no claims to contradict, nothing but the pleasure of sharing yet another beauty. 


	27. accessory

Sometimes, Qrow likes to play games.

Clover anticipates it, even if it does feel like he is playing with fire. He recognizes what it is that Qrow plans, knows what this perilous thing is that digs beneath his skin and sears against the linings of his veins; he sees the accessories that Qrow sets out, innocuous despite their lurid glint in the lamplight, bands of black and silver that look lovely against his pallid skin.

He has already changed into the evening’s outfit, some leather jacket that glistens and illegally tight jeans to match, an outfit he knows will get him what he wants. It is not often that he teases on these date nights, but Clover still knows better to think that it is anything but deliberate. 

There is no way that Qrow does not know what he is doing - not when he holds the choker up by its clasp and purrs, “A little help, here?”

Clover does not know who it is he is indulging when he takes the bait.

Qrow tilts his head back just so, the cut of his jaw lethal, the insistent tap tap tap of his fingertips against Clover’s coat lapels like the countdown of a timer. Clover’s fingers brush against his skin, the friction electrifying, the pulse at his thumbs jumping like the fire that flares in his hands where they settle around Qrow’s throat. 

The clasp clicks into place. The leather is smooth, strong, cool to the touch while the blood in Clover’s veins thrum like wildfire. There is a twinge in Qrow’s neck, hardly there, and Clover aches desperately to feel it against his teeth.

“Keep staring like that and we’ll miss the movie,” Qrow murmurs, his smirk delightfully wicked, his breath heady where it ghosts over Clover’s lips.

There is a lure to his voice, a call to his words, a needy sort of hunger in his eyes that pulls Clover in until he knows nothing but the heat that melts between their lips.


	28. fireflies

It is silent between them.

Once upon a time, it would have worried Qrow. There has never been any good in lake water stillness and a silence fit to shatter at the slightest movement. But Harbinger is not at his back, and his kids are not worn ragged at his sides, and there are no threats that linger in the surrounding trees. Now, he appreciates the silence, because it allows him to think.

And if there is one thing he has been thinking constantly about, it is this.

His hand is in his pocket. The box is deceivably plush, rounded at the corners, a velvet that quickly grows warm the longer he holds it. They are almost home, walking languidly down a ragged path through the forest nearby, not cold but not warm either. It is almost ethereal, the glow of the forest in the early summer, pulsing strong once twilight finally emerges.

The first time Clover saw them, he was mesmerized - stunned by the fireflies that danced amongst the undergrowth, the array of yellow orbs as they flit along and breathed life out into the forest one by one. It was their first summer together, so long ago now, back in a time where Qrow did not know if he would see the next summer blossom like this.

But he has. They both have. Years now, years together, years spent healing, years spent learning. Years that Qrow never thought he would have, years that he would never trade for anything in Remnant. He would not trade this thing between them, not for the fireflies, the starry night sky, the sunsets and the sunrises; not a single thing has brought him more joy and calm in his life than this.

That much he wants to say. He tries to, tries his hardest, but it is not enough. The box in his hand is heavy. His pulse is in his throat, jumping, burning, dancing like the fireflies do. They glimmer, never once fading, scattering precariously when he steps over a protruding root. 

He has made promises before, ones that he will always uphold, but none of them have ever been as calamitous as this.

He is caught off guard when Clover finally speaks. It does not shatter the silence, but instead burns it to ash, emerging quietly rather than bursting into existence; Clover tries once, falters, squeezes Qrow’s hand before he lets go.

“I didn’t know you’d mean so much to me,” Clover says to him. Quiet, so quiet, soft and quiet and swathed with a fond warmth that Qrow has never known before him. “When I first met you, I never knew I’d find something like this.”

Qrow looks over to him, and the world gradually slows until it is revolving languorously around nothing but Clover. On one knee, the gleam in his eyes bright, the yellow glow of fireflies shining like starlight within them. Qrow does not hear the words that follow over the pound of his heart, the tremor beneath his feet, the whirl of stars as they fall from the cosmos and into the fluttering space beneath his sternum. 

Then, an incredulous laugh bursts out of him. 

Clover blinks. Wilts. “That’s . . . not the response I was expecting.”

“No, hold on -” Qrow blurts out, immediately fumbling with his pocket. “Cloves, I - Brothers, just - just hold on -”

Qrow does not know what it is that lingers on Clover’s expression like a silhouette beneath water, indiscernible up until he finally manages to withdraw the box that he has been trying desperately to hide for _weeks_ now. A breathless pause follows before Clover breaks into a smile that burns brighter than any sunset that Patch could ever give them.

“Did we really -?”

He cuts off with a soft laugh, and there is nothing in the world that could have stopped Qrow from surging forth and slotting their lips together. It is frantic, messy, neither needy nor desperate but something more vulnerable than that; Qrow makes a wounded noise, something that sounds like a plea, a prayer, a promise that only Clover can hear.

Something that sounds like a _yes_.


	29. nature

Autumn always comes by suddenly. The change is swift, but not jarring, the transition from vibrant greens to smoldering oranges one of the loveliest things that Patch has to offer. 

The path Clover walks on is littered in reds and yellows, pouring out from the trees as they weep out into the crisp afternoon air. There is a flutter, softer than the whisper of swaying branches and skittering leaves, and Clover pauses. Soon, a crow lands on his shoulder, shifting clumsily before it finally settles.

He has long since learned to anticipate it on these afternoon walks; unsurprisingly, Qrow is fond of the weather and the colors, and it is often that he strays from the path and returns as something small and hollow.

Clover reaches up to run his fingers along the crow’s spine. It trills, sidles closer, and pecks at the ring that Clover wears. It has its own, a matching outline around one of his talons, a curious little aspect to Qrow’s corvid form that endlessly fascinated Clover the first time he found it. The barest indents in its plumage, perceptible only when it settles so closely and allows Clover to run his fingers against its feathers. 

Like this, Qrow’s eyes match the leaves that flutter past once more, raining briefly from the overhanging branches. He looks to be in his element, with nothing but joy in the gleam in his eyes, nothing but blissful content in the soft noises he makes before he takes off once more.

He will return in time, Clover knows, once the sun sets and the chill begins to roll in.


	30. hands

Qrow has not tapped out nameless patterns in a long time.

Instead, he traces them.

His fingers are gentle where they press, the glide of them a warm whisper against Clover’s skin, following every peak and valley and length of scar far past healing. The touch does not send sparks skittering to life, electricity thrumming like blood, fire roaring beneath Clover’s flesh; it is not a mapping, but a reminiscence, nothing but quiet familiarity in every caress of his fingertips.

Clover recognizes it as an idle behavior rather than an excuse to occupy his hands. Qrow has never been touchy, not before, not when they met. He has never had any other use for his hands, not when there was a flask to carry and a weapon to wield. But there are no behaviors to unlearn or cravings to stave off anymore - now, he touches merely because he likes to.

The touches grow slower, softer, until they finally stop to rest at the center of Clover’s chest. He caresses idly there, against the mould of flesh to Atlesian metal, a touch that he knows Clover enjoys. It is remarkable, this consideration, this mild indulgence, given to Clover even when Qrow is drifting quickly off to sleep.

Clover weaves their fingers together once the movement stops. There are many things he wants to say, but it is not dire, not when he knows that there is a lifetime ahead for him to say them. Instead, he lifts Qrow’s hand and brushes his lips against the titanium band around his ring finger. Clover mouths the words, the declaration, the reiteration of a promise made long ago.

A few moments pass before Qrow finally murmurs, “Love you, too.”


	31. free day

Qrow knows what this is.

It is not a sudden realization. It does not hit him out of the blue or quickly register as if in second thought; it is a slow and steady conclusion that he comes to, shifting into focus as the days come and go. His only reflection of it comes early one morning, passing as an idle thought as he turns over in Clover’s arms and nuzzles into the crook of his neck.

He takes a long breath, holds it in his chest, then lets it out with a languid sigh. It is relief that filters through with the pull of oxygen into his veins. Qrow could equate it to the same kind of relief that comes with unraveled bandages, but that is not what this is.

Rather, it is like coming home after a long day.

There is no longer any healing, because a wound that has mended itself cannot heal further. There are no more aches to soothe, because they have already faded into the echoes of past hardships. There are no memories to stave off, because they have been forgiven and laid to rest long ago.

It is only them now, them and this exquisite thing they have created on their own. It is only this soft place they have fallen to, this quietude they have reached, a lovely thing that Qrow did not know what to call at first.

But now, he does.

Peace, Qrow thinks, that is what this is - a long-awaited peace that he knows will not shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ♡
> 
> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


End file.
